


throw the man a bone

by orsaverba



Series: new tricks and wishbones ( a Sheith AU ) [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Atlas is a dog, Dog Walker Keith, Fluff, Keith is a walking gay disaster, M/M, Shiro improves Keith's quality of life by existing, dog walker au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 23:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17693660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orsaverba/pseuds/orsaverba
Summary: In which life makes up for every horrible client Keith has ever had to deal with by dropping Takashi Shirogane and his Samoyed puppy into his lap.





	throw the man a bone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer before we begin; 
> 
> I'm a dog walker myself, so almost all of Keith's experiences are based off my own. Likewise, his opinions on dog walking, training and rearing mirror mine. These are just my opinions, though, I'm not necessarily saying that my way is correct, or even the best way to do things. It's just what's worked for me and the dogs that I personally have worked with.

“When I said I wanted you to walk Pickles at 2PM I _meant_ 2PM! Not 2:10, not 2:30, _**2PM**_!”

 

Keith drew in a long-suffering breath as subtly as he could.

 

“Mr. Everson,” he began, holding the last of his patience by the throat. “Like I’ve said before, there is a thirty minute grace period when a walk begins. I _did_ tell you this when you hired me.”

 

“Pickles needs to go out at _2PM_! How would _you_ like it if someone made you hold your pee-pee for an extra half-hour?!”

 

Keith glanced down at Pickles. He wondered if it was worth it to mention that the purebred Bichon Frise preferred to wait until the last five minutes of every walk to pee, regardless of when he was picked up.

 

Pickles panted at him, dopey and blank eyed.

 

 _Probably not_ , Keith decided.

 

“You should be more punctual!” Mr. Everson ranted on. “If it’s just about getting here quicker then you should cut whatever you do before you walk Pickles short so you get here on time!”

 

Irritation formed a furrow between Keith’s brows and he fought to bite his tongue.

 

What he _wanted_ to say was that _whatever he did before walking Pickles_ was walk a Great Dane named Raptor for an hour. After his hour long walk, Raptor needed to take medication with his post-walk treat. This took anywhere between five and fifteen minutes to accomplish. Then, it was a fifteen to twenty minute walk to Pickles. So, no matter how Keith swung it, if Raptor got dropped off at 1:45 the soonest he could pick up Pickles would be an audacious five minutes after 2PM.

 

What he actually said was;

 

“I’m sorry you’ve found my service sub-par. Good luck finding a new walker for Pickles.”

 

Back out on the afternoon sidewalk, the over sized ring of keys on his belt one set lighter, Keith allowed himself a frustrated sigh.

 

Keith loved dogs. It would not be an over exaggeration to say that he preferred them to people. Making a living walking dogs had been a spark of ingenuity born from one too many overtime shifts working retail, and it wasn’t one Keith regretted. Dogs were great.

 

Dog owners, on the other hand, could be some of the most self-important, entitled, neurotic people in existence. If their precious furbaby didn’t go out for exactly twenty-three minutes every three hours, or shit exactly two turds per walk, they lost their damn minds. And because Keith was the hired help, and the only human in the equation, he tended to take the brunt of their melodramatic pseudo-meltdowns.

 

How _dare_ he, a person who neither lived with the animal nor read minds, not know that there was only one block six streets over that Princess Blueberry Fluffbutt would pee on?! Absolutely outrageous!

 

It wasn’t _all_ bad. He was self-employed, so when clients like Mr. Everson got too overbearing, Keith was free to drop them. There were a lot of really chill clients too, ones who at this point he might even consider friendly acquaintances. Plus, he got to spend all day with dogs.

  
And the money was good if he kept his open hours full, so that was a pretty motivating factor too.

 

Speaking of openings in his schedule; Keith scrolled down his list of walks for the day to check when the next one was due. It was 3:00 and his next walk wasn’t until 4:00, which gave him a solid hour free. That was more than enough time to grab something to eat, review the notes from his latest lecture, and remove Pickles from his schedule for the rest of the week.

 

Oh, and remind Mr. Everson he still had to Venmo him payment for the three walks he _had_ done this week.

 

A venti mocha frappuccino with an extra espresso shot and a toasted bagel sandwich from the deli next to Starbucks sounded _amazing_ right now.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Keith stood in line waiting to place his drink order. The paper bag containing his sandwich was tucked into the crook of his elbow, still kind of warm, and he was passing the time checking his phone.

 

The text to Mr. Everson had been _extremely_ satisfying to send, almost as satisfying as the $60 deposited into his Venmo account a few minutes later. He deleted the text chain titled PICKLES and thumbed through the rest of his messages, searching for any updates from clients he may have missed. He was just rereading the last few messages from a client with a rather bratty English Spaniel when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

 

Much like a dog, Keith was not altogether fond of being touched without permission, and definitely not when he couldn’t see who the fuck was touching him.

 

He turned, prepared to scowl at whoever wanted his hungry, uncaffeinated attention, but stopped when faced with a man who could probably bench press him. Not because that intimidated him or anything. He just kind of wondered if he could also bench press him with one arm, and would he be willing to try right now, please?

 

“Uh--” Keith fumbled eloquently.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” tall, broad and handsome chuckled sheepishly. “You’re a dog walker, right?”

 

“Uh--” Keith repeated. “Yeah. How’d you guess?”

 

The man smiled, and Keith wondered if angels were supposed to look like they could lift small cars.

 

“I’ve seen you around the neighborhood. Also...”

 

Keith followed his gaze down to the hefty key ring threatening to pull his jeans lower on his hips. One of these days he was going to have to find a more efficient way of carrying the damn things that didn’t involve wearing suspenders to keep his pants up.

 

“Right.” he said. “Yeah, I’m a dog walker.”

 

He’d said that already. _Smooth_ , Keith.

 

“I didn’t mean to accost you when you’re on your lunch break, it’s just, I’ve been meaning to ask my neighbor about what company you work for… I kind of desperately need a walker for my dog.”

 

The internal switch between off-the-clock Keith and on-the-clock Keith flipped. Keith drew himself up a little straighter and pocketed his phone, giving his potential client his full attention.

 

“I have limited availability.” he forewarned. “I’m a one-man operation and a student. I work between noon and 7PM on week days, don’t work weekends unless you absolutely need me and then it’s double my usual fee.”

 

“That’s completely fine.”

 

“I also don’t do pack walks. At most, I do two to three dogs at a time, max. So if a time slot gets booked, it’s booked.”

 

“Of course!” Bachelor of the Year agreed. Was he a bachelor? Keith didn’t see any rings, so the dreamy schoolboy in him was going to imagine that he was single and also gay. “I figured as much, but I was hoping you could squeeze me in.”

 

There was an absolutely awful innuendo to be made there, which Keith was rescued from making by the tired looking barista calling for the next customer. He ordered his frappuccino, paid, then walked the few feet to the end of the drink bar to wait for his order. Tall, gorgeous and totally out of his league also ordered, then came and joined him.

 

“So,” Keith said, definitely because he wanted to engage his potential client and not because he wanted to keep talking to the walking embodiment of what Magic Mike wished he could be. “What kind of dog do you have?”

 

It was worth it to watch his eyes light up, even if that was the same look that usually got Keith into half-hour long slideshow presentations about how great someone’s dog was.

 

“A Samoyed! Here, hold on--” Gorgeous patted his pockets for his phone and then opened his photo gallery. “His name is Atlas and he’s--”

 

He paused abruptly, blinked, and then laughed.

 

“I never introduced _myself_ , did I? My bad. Takashi Shirogane. Call me Shiro.”

 

Shiro stuck out his hand, which appeared to be a top of the line prosthetic. Keith didn’t bother hesitating before he took it, shaking firmly.

 

“Keith.”

 

Shiro beamed, which Keith was pretty sure contained enough pure joy to conjure a patronus and vanquish a dementor. Where were these metaphors coming from? It’s like he’d descended into the mind of his junior high school self in English class.

 

“So this is Atlas,” Shiro said, shuffling over next to Keith so he could see his phone. The end result had them shoulder to bicep, with a very noticeable few inches lost between them. Keith pretended that didn’t make his stomach flip.

 

“He’s just about a year old, so he’s still really energetic.” Shiro flicked from one photo to the next as he spoke, showing off a cloud of white fur with a lolling pink tongue. “It can be a lot to handle, especially during walks, but he’s really sweet.”

 

“He pulls?”

 

“Yeah. I don’t know if that would be a problem for you...”

 

“What do you use to walk him? Collar or harness?”

  
  
“A collar, why?” Shiro asked warily.

 

From his tone, Keith assumed he wasn’t the first person to offer their opinion on how Atlas should be handled on a leash. He could only imagine the suggestions Shiro had gotten in the past.

 

“He should probably be on a harness if he pulls a lot.” Keith said carefully. “Front-clip harnesses put a little resistance on them and it just kind of makes them not want to pull as much.”

 

Shiro blinked.

 

“Oh.” he said. “I didn’t know that.”

 

Not everyone did. In Keith’s experience, people tended to jump straight to choke chains, shock collars, and rigorous training classes. He wasn’t fond of the first two, and hiring a trainer was expensive. Nothing was a quick fix, dogs were living beings, and if people would just slow down and look for less aggressive alternatives their canine companion would be better for it.

 

“How is he with other dogs?”

 

“Friendly! Uh, maybe a little too friendly? He kind of wants to be everyone’s friend.”

 

“That’s a puppy thing. He’ll probably outgrow it, but you should also work on redirecting his attention when he gets distracted. Treats help, but just talking to him is good too.”

 

Keith paused and glanced up.

 

“Sorry, I’m not trying to tell you how to raise your dog or anything...”

 

“No, no!” Shiro interjected quickly. “I appreciate it! I had dogs growing up, but Atlas is the first one I’ve raised from a puppy myself. I could use all the advice I can get.”

 

Keith smiled, relieved. Not every client appreciated the input of their walker, and he told Shiro as much.

 

“All that tells me is that you really know your stuff, and you really care for the dogs you walk.”

 

Shiro beamed at him. Keith stared.

 

If a barista hadn’t called Keith’s name he probably would have gone on staring a while longer, pondering the unfairness of the universe. People were not meant to be impossibly attractive, genuinely kind _and_ own big, fluffy dogs. That just seemed totally unjust, an attack on Keith’s sensibilities specifically.

 

He sucked down a mouthful of icy mocha-espresso goodness in an attempt to make his heart stop doing whatever Cirque du Soleil nonsense was happening inside his ribs. It didn’t help, but it was delicious.

 

“Are you free for a half-hour walk around 2PM and then a second, longer walk around 6PM?” Shiro asked, accepting his own simpler, but equally caffeinated drink from the barista.

 

Any lingering disappointment Keith had been feeling about not seeing Pickles again evaporated immediately.

 

“Yeah, that’s fine.” he said. “But I do want to let you know there’s a thirty minute window around that time where I’ll be picking up your dog. It’s not going to be exactly on the hour.”

 

“Oh, that’s fine. Honestly, anywhere within the hour works great.”

 

Those words were music to his ears. This day couldn’t get any better.

 

“Here,” Shiro extended his hand. “Let me give you my number.”

 

Oh wait, yes it could.

 

“Sure.”

 

Keith handed over his phone so Shiro could input his contact information, hopefully casually and not with the giddy eagerness of a high schooler with a crush.

 

“Do you think you could start walking Atlas next week?”

 

“Yeah.” Keith accepted his phone back. “If you want, we can do trial walk before then. You come along to supervise and we see how Atlas and I get along.”

 

Maybe he was imagining it, but Keith could have sworn Shiro’s expression brightened at the suggestion.

 

“That sounds great! Just text me, we can work out a time.”

 

Keith considered the fact that he’d just been given permission to text Shiro at whim, but weighed it against the reminder that he was now a client. Professionally, it was probably ill-advised to flirt with him. Too bad he didn’t have a boss who would enforce any kind of company policy if he did.

 

“You got it.” he affirmed.

 

Shiro smiled broadly, dazzling Keith all over again.

 

“I’ll let you get to your lunch now.” he said.

 

Oh.

 

Right.

 

Lunch. Food. The whole reason he’d come in here and bought a ridiculously overpriced coffee to feed the fussy gremlin in his stomach. Keith had completely forgotten the sandwich he was carrying.

 

“Right.” he said aloud, distractedly.

 

“I’m sorry I took up so much of your time--”

 

“No, it’s fine, I don’t mind--”

 

“I’ll just--”

 

“I can--”

 

They stopped talking at the same time.

 

Heat crawled traitorous pink down Keith’s cheekbones. He cleared his throat and turned his head, breaking eye contact. There was a pattern emerging here; stare at Shiro, act like an idiot. Damn, he’d cracked it.

 

“I’ll text you.”

 

“Sure.” Shiro chuckled. “Sounds good.”

 

“Right, so I’ll--”

 

“See you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good.”

 

Good?

 

Rather than elaborate, Shiro checked his watch, smiled one more time, and then turned to leave. Keith watched him go. When he got to the door, Shiro looked over his shoulder and waved. Lamely, Keith waved back.

 

Had that whole interaction just happened? Was this God’s way of apologizing for all the Mr. Everson’s Keith had had to deal with over the two years he’d been doing this?

 

“I love my job.” he said to no one.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on Twitter! **@x_noctyrne**


End file.
